Awkwardness
by coffeeonthepatio
Summary: Awkwardness settles in the small apothecary in which Snape and Granger work together. It's left to settle and fester and well, you know these two. They make strange decisions. M for language for now...
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own Severus Snape, nor Hermione Granger, or anything else from the world that JK Rowling created. I own a small cheesecake though..._

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Anyone who passed or even entered the little apothecary at that time wouldn't have noticed a difference. Outwardly, everything was much the same as it had always been.

Snape was in the back, brewing, or fiddling with new recipes, the door to his laboratory sometimes closed, sometimes half-open, sometimes ajar. Sounds could always be heard from the back, small noises like harmless Chinese firecrackers or sometimes whistles, sometimes, but only ever on Monday mornings, even the out-of-tune humming of the owner, and brewer, himself.

Granger was up front, labelling jars, putting them in order, serving customers, keeping the books, ordering ingredients, sometimes, but not very often, and only ever on Thursday afternoons when there was a lull, hunched over a book, or even a crossword puzzle.

Snape was only seldom in the front, and when he was, he would always look surly, he would always scowl, and barely uttered a word. Not even to customers.

Granger was constantly smiling, her head surrounded, or engulfed, by a cloud of bushy hair, even though sometimes there were traces of her trying to keep it tamed. Her attempts could never be called quite successful. Granger was constantly chatty, always knew the names of her regular, and irregular customers and she brought a kind of inner light to the otherwise dark, and rather gloomy, apothecary.

Granger and Snape – that was why people bothered to go out of their way to get their potions. Granger and Snape were the reason that the stepped out of Diagon Alley, crossed the street in the Muggle world and stepped into the little shop, hidden to Muggle eyes who only ever saw Boots to one side, and right next to it HMV. They couldn't see the little apothecary between those two but barely wondered about weirdly dressed people simply vanishing between those two. It was just more proof of how Snape and Granger handled their shop – and their wards. They came for Snape's excellent potions and for Granger's chatty, smiley disposition. They came, because they were served well and because the quality of the things acquired were brilliant.

Even in those days, back then, nobody noticed that something, inside the apothecary, was strange. Nobody noticed anything. Apart from, of course, Snape and Granger themselves.

She had come to him, had asked him for employment after she had broken her dalliance with one Ronald Weasley and couldn't possibly work in the same building with him anymore. He, out of a sense of obligation (because she had been the one to go back to the Shrieking Shack and well, he hated to admit it, had saved his life), had employed her in his apothecary. He had been tired of dealing with idiots. It was just as simple as that.

For the first, oh, about three years, their conversations were kept strictly on the business. It was striving and Granger regularly received raises, went home happily, and even went to work happily. They talked once or twice a week about potions and what ingredients he needed and if he needed something special, he just wrote her a note. They just worked together.

.

Then, one night, just before it turned weird inside the little apothecary, she stayed longer, her eyes still swollen from crying over her dead half-Kneazle Crookshanks, just to finish the book keeping for the week.

He stayed as well, noticed her swollen eyes but said nothing until she began to curse – quite crudely – about one or the other of their distributors and his eyes almost popped out of his head because he had never heard her talk this way.

"Fuck it," she ended her tirade.

"Good Merlin, Granger," he answered simply.

"Sorry," she said, and a moment later, everything bubbled out of her. Her recent break-up with a Muggle bloke she had been with for about half a year, her annoyance at some of her distributors for not taking her seriously, the idiotic customers to which she had always had to be nice, and at least, the parting of her beloved pet which weighed most on her heart.

He merely stood, leaning against the counter of his apothecary and listened.

The next morning, the weird mood had begun to settle over the little apothecary. Not that they noticed at first. This, their first talk, was only one of many. She talked to him more than once a day, and sometimes, he even opened up to her. Slowly, but surely, the awkwardness festered and still, they didn't notice and kept on talking, long into the nights and sometimes, Granger transfigured one thing or the other into a camp bed to sleep in the little shop because she simply did not want to go home.

.

It was Snape, of course, who noticed the awkwardness at first and he tried to pull back out of it. He tried to stop their talks but because Granger hadn't noticed yet, she didn't and kept on chatting away, telling him about things that occurred in her free time, stuff she had read, troubles with, again, the distributors, and some idiotic customers. She vented and he listened but he never talked anymore.

.

Outwardly, all remained the same at the apothecary. He brewed, she smiled.

.

When she noticed that something was awkward, she didn't realise at first, that it was awkward at all. Their conversations were, if anything, even more amicable than they had been when they had begun to talk about, oh, two years ago. She often reached over to touch his arm, or rest her fingers on his, or to poke him when she wanted to drive home a point and he had, often, done the same, if in smaller measures.

It was in the middle of the night that she noticed the weirdness – but only when she thought about the fact that he had, oh, four weeks ago, stopped touching her completely. It was only then that the awkwardness that had been allowed to fester and burn in the apothecary invaded her stomach with one quick realisation in her brain.

Granger was in love with Snape.

It had happened so gradually, so slowly, so, oh, timidly, that she had barely realised. But he was, after all, all she wanted in a man. He was older, he was taller, he had nice hands and eyebrows, he had insanely intense eyes that grew even darker when he wanted to drive home a point (and had often, before he had stopped, poked her to do so) and lips that she longed to feel on hers. A tongue and vocal chords that could drive her mad by speaking only. So, as she sat bolt upright in her bed, realising that, for the first time in years, she was in love again, and madly at that, the awkwardness settled in her stomach and in her mind as well.

.

He, of course, noticed immediately that something was wrong. The skirts she usually wore had at least grown two inches in length. The heels, in turn, had shrunk down to nothing and the Muggle shirts she insisted on wearing had grown huge. Only her hair continued to be the same and the smile she wore when she talked to customers only seemed off to the well-trained eye.

.

The only difference was, when the awkwardness had settled and been noticed by everyone working in the little apothecary, she left as soon as she could and did not even stop to say good-bye.

.

Snape suspected that she had found out that he was in love with her. Or – worse – that she had yet found another idiotic Muggle boyfriend with whom she would be happy, marriage, children, semi-detached with dogs and cats and whatnot. Of course he only wanted her to be happy and yet he wondered in his love-starved heart if it was so wrong to want her to be happy with him.

A few weeks later – when she had left on the dot every day, when she had only smiled at the customers and not at him, he knew he would not be dragged into another one of those unhappy-in-love-things again. He would … yes … fire her. He would vanish her out of his life and he would slip easily back into the role of surly potioneer. Only, she was the only one who touched him, who laughed with him, who spent time with him apart from the Kneazle kitten he had seen at the Owl Emporium, and who had looked so pitiful that he was reminded of a certain someone and which he had bought on a whim and named, because he was as dark as night and had cute little fang-like teeth, Dracula. Not that she knew he had the kitten. It was none of her business but …

He didn't want to lose the easy camaraderie he had shared with her over a cup of tea or a butty or some buscuits. He didn't want to lose those casual, gentle touches and the tickling pokes. He wanted nothing more than to keep her and yet … he would not subject himself to her pity when he told her that he … loved her.

As far as he could see, there were only two ways to go: fire her, or tell her. He couldn't go on like this in any longer. And since he would never be able to endure her laughter when she found out for sure that he was in love with her, he would have to get rid of her.

.

It was hard to stand the strange looks Snape gave her all day long. She couldn't see them per se but she felt them boring into her back at all times. This was the day, she knew it. She would have to get things off her chest and then get the hell out. She couldn't possibly work in such a small space with him. She needed to tell him to stop being kind to her one day, looking like he fancied the pants off her, or like she was an early Christmas present one day, touching her, laughing with her, and being an utter bastard the next day.

In her heart, she knew this wasn't true. He had withdrawn all kinds of affection, verbal and non-verbal a few weeks ago. He was just being a surly bastard but she couldn't possibly tell him that she was insanely in love with him and wanted to crawl in his pocket, or under his skin, just to be closer.

She would tell him she got tired of his stupid games, that she despised playing games because she always lost and would then resign. Immediately. It was the only way to go.

.

He steeled himself for the moment. He heard her footfalls coming towards him and he had the parchment with the termination of her contract on hand already.

She pushed the door open and with a weird sort of expression on her face, as if she had just lost something great, she cleared her throat and her voice was small and wispy when she spoke.

"I quit," she said and for a moment, he couldn't believe his ears and he shook his head.

"I quit," she repeated," don't shake your head. I resign."

"You're fired," he replied coldly and handed her the paper he had prepared. "You receive two weeks' salary and a bonus for work adequately done."

Her eyes opened wide for a moment before she took the parchment from him with trembling fingers and just as she turned to walk away, she said, softly, "Good bye."

.

_Ahem. Yes. Well. If you want another chappy with a possibly happy ending, let me know. And if not, let me know as well. And let me know if you liked this thing (since it's very loosely based on real life...). _

_Thank you!_


	2. Chapter 2

_The usual disclaimers apply._

…

The tears just fell. She couldn't stop them or explain them really, or do anything but let them flow, use tissue after tissue, blowing her red nose and wiping her red eyes. It just felt like she had made the biggest mistake by resigning or being fired and at the same time, she wasn't sure why he had been so keen on letting her go either. And at this stage, she wasn't sure she even wanted to think about it. She was perfectly content to wallow in her self-pity and her own hurt and pain.

In a way, she had always known that this intimacy with Severus Snape couldn't possibly last. He was at least as damaged as he was when it came to all things emotional, if not more so. She knew she had gone too far, she knew she had said too much, told him too much, touched him too much, interpreted too much into his actions and his words and his occasional little touches. And she was paying for this now. She was paying with bitter tears, an achy head and a nose that didn't feel like a nose at all. She felt hurt and used and full of pain and she wasn't even sure why she felt this heartbroken when nothing had ever happened between them.

But maybe that was just the point – nothing had ever happened. All the things she had thought about, all the things she had fantasised about, had wanted, had dreamt about – they had never happened. He had never once kissed her, he had never once touched anything apart from her back or her arms or her hands. He had never said words of love to her. In fact, he had never even paid her a clear compliment and of course, he had never clearly said that she had done something in the right way. He had only ever done the Snape-thing, had almost-smiled, had almost-praised, had always have to be read into. He always had to be interpreted. He always had to be …

And yet, she was crying her eyes out about a thing that had never happened, would never happen, never had the slightest chance of happening. It had all been in her mind and her mind was the thing that was most hurting her. Her imagination on what might have been hurt her. Rationally, she knew nothing could have ever been but her imagination – oh, her imagination...

She would definitely try and blow it out with all the icky stuff in her nose. Together with all the hopes and dreams from her time working in his apothecary.

…

He sat, as was his custom, unsociable and with a face that clearly said don't even think of speaking to me at his corner table in The Crippled Monkey, eating his usual Sunday lunch fare of roast and potatoes and peas. They knew him in The Crippled Monkey, even though it was a Muggle pub. They knew he only came in on Sundays during lunchtime and by that time, he even had his own table. The corner table where nobody ever dared disturb him. It was the way he liked it.

Even though – in the last few weeks, months, maybe even longer, he had realised a kind of … not that he wanted to put it into words … but a kind of happiness about the simplicity of talking with another human being. Of being able to just sit and talk and listen and not being judged by someone else. He supposed it came from the simple fact that this woman had known him for most of her life. Not most of his life, but definitely for more than half of hers.

She had seen him almost dead and she had seen him as a dreadful, terrifying teacher. She had seen him as a business man. There had been no need to explain what subjects not to touch. In a way, that was terrifying, and in a way, it was liberating.

Just as ambiguous as firing her had been. The one side of the coin – well – was for the best. She had had grown too close to him, and she had wormed her way into his heart. The other side of the coin – was for the worst. He was now forced back into his shell. The shell, the armour, of not speaking with another human being for weeks (the selling of things did not count as conversation). That was liberating and terrifying.

Still, he thought as he dug into his potatoes. No need to cry over spilt potion. It was done. He had fired her, or she had left (and no, he did not want to think about that particular aspect of their parting), and that was the end of it. There was, actually, nothing more to it.

He wasn't hungry but forced the food down his throat. He needed to do more brewing, something he hadn't been able to do much the last weeks, just because he was too preoccupied with … her.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He had let a woman, a slip of a girl, distract him to the point that he wasn't able to work anymore and that hadn't happened since – Lily. Not that he wanted to compare those two, not at all but …

He had to stop thinking about it. He had to stop.

It was all so simple. Whereas his affection for Lily had been almost instant, and just because she had shown him a little kindness, had spent her time with him, his affection for her had … grown. He had known her for so long and for most of the time she had been a swot only, a know-it-all, memorable because of her hair and yes, because she had helped Potter save their world. But the hair had been more memorable. And the swottiness. Of course that had all changed when she had so boldly stepped into his shop. Or at least it had begun to change then.

Not that he wanted to think about it.

Well.

The simple fact of the matter was that she had found her way into his heart through the art of … speech. She had only talked to him. They had honest, real conversations. She had been listening, she had been talking. They never ran out of things to say. Never. They just continued talking until someone was tired or had to go home or there was a customer out there. It had been as simple as that. She hadn't sugarcoated her words, she hadn't used her looks, she hadn't used anything but simply conversations. That was all it had been. And it had completely done him in.

He was lost.

He shoved the plate away and left The Crippled Monkey hurriedly. This place made him think too much. He had to distract himself and get his shelves refilled.

…

She didn't even want to look at job ads. She didn't want to talk to someone. She didn't want to listen to anyone. She only wanted to sit in her flat and she did. For over a week, she lived on take aways. Curry, Chinese, Indian, good old fashioned fish and chips or scallop muffins. She ate her way through a megapack of Walkers. She ate her way through a family-pack of M&S lemon meringue biscuits and through three ASDA chocolate cakes. Her Floo was disconnected, her telephone switched off, her mobile phone discarded somewhere. Not that she needed it. She didn't need her computer either. She didn't need anything but the television and she used that in abundance. She knew all about the Muggle soaps, she knew every cooking show, all the talent shows. It never even occurred to her that she wasn't behaving, acting, being a witch at all in the time after she had left work. And Severus Snape. She didn't want to do anything. Not even wash her hair. Especially not wash her hair.

Of course she still had some friends and Ginny as well as Harry and even Ron tried to visit her but she ignored the knocks on the door and the timidly rung doorbell.

Deep inside, she knew what was bothering her and she knew one way to get her head out of the muddle it was currently in. The thing that basically bothered her most was the fact that … he had fired her.

He hadn't let her resign, he had fired her. Why, she didn't know and that question was sitting deeply in her mind, keeping her up all night and drowsy all through the day.

She would, she knew by the end of the week and the suggested calorie-intake for an entire month, have to ask him. There was no other way around this. She would either get an answer, or not but by asking, she knew, she could get herself out of that bloody hole and join the living and healthy-eating and clean-haired again. And she probably would have to do that before she went and asked Snape.

Or maybe not. Maybe now, she thought as she pulled her hand out of yet another packet of roast turkey crisps, was the right moment. Now, she thought, crunching on more crisps, she had the right momentum. Now she had to do it. Now or never.

If she didn't get an answer, she could honestly just write him off as a wanker who didn't deserve her affection (and the self-delusion would, naturally, work). If she got an answer, she would deal with it. It was as simple as that, she thought, as she slipped out of her slippers and into her trainers. She only quickly pulled a hoodie over her head, didn't even dare to risk a glance into the mirror and stormed out of the door. Now, as impulsive as she felt, was the right moment.

…

It had taken him over a week to get his shelves filled the way they were supposed to be filled. It didn't matter that he basically had no customers, paying or otherwise that week. He would get them again. The flu-season was upon them. They would come back to him. Even without her to smile at them and laugh and joke with them and make more sales by simply being herself.

He had compensated the gap she had left there with work. He had worked more than twenty hours a day. He had slept for the rest of the twenty-four. He had barely eaten and he knew that his robes just hung off his thin frame. It didn't matter. His shelves were restocked with potions in better than excellent quality and she was gone and wouldn't come back.

He might as well lock the door for that day, finish, go home, lose himself in a book until his eyes fell shut. It was, it seemed, what he did best. Working, staring at letters in books (without possibly actually reading them), sleeping. He didn't need any of his own potions to aid him. He just grabbed the few hours of sleep he could get and when it was disturbed, by a dream or just thirst, he got up and continued working. Of course he feared that now that his work ran slowly but steadily out, he would need to find something else to occupy himself with but he had a stack of notes the size of of Muggle skyscraper somewhere in his laboratory. Notes on potions he had not tried to brew yet, notes on potential cures for dragon pox and kneazle measles as well as pigeon fever. He could definitely work on improve some Muggle remedies as well. And if all else failed, he could just – redecorate.

He suppressed the sigh that wanted to escape his throat as he stared at the empty spot behind the counter in his apothecary as he wanted to close shop. It was where she had always stood, where she had … so yes, he had been a fool to throw her out but it was just one of those things in his life.

Sometimes it felt suspiciously like he was sabotaging his own life and his own happiness.

Shaking his head, Severus strode to the door, pushing all those thoughts into a box in his head. It didn't matter what he thought, what he wanted. He had to get on with the cards he had been dealt (and had dealt himself). He pulled the wand out of his sleeve and was about to point it at the doorknob when he noticed a shadow approaching his door. From his spot, he couldn't tell if it was one of the numerous homeless people that almost crowded the streets of London by night, or it is some tourist who was lost, some person that just wanted to go home or even a customer who needed some potion desperately.

Actually, on closer inspection, that seemed like the most logical thing but just because this rather short person walked straight to his apothecary. Muggles, as they couldn't see it, always kept a little to the left or the right.

Realisation came in one fell swoop and a lump was quickly forming in his throat. For all the things he had ever prepared for in life, this was one instance he had never even considered preparing for. And she kept a steady step towards his door.

He tried to force all the instincts away that screamed at him to use a quick Bombarda to get the door out of the way, sweep her up in his arms and kiss her until she fainted. He tried to force all the instincts away that screamed at him to lock the door tightly and vanish into the darkness of his backrooms. He tried, desperately, to find a third way, to find out what a rational grown-up person would do when faced with this rather idiotic situation.

To have the woman he had fired because he had developed feelings for come running straight at his door.

Severus forced air into his lungs, shifted from the left foot to the right foot, then back again as she came closer and closer. His indecision would cost him dearly, that much he knew. He just didn't know for sure what the price was.

…

Her nerve was failing her but she ignored the little voice inside of her that screamed at her to get the hell away from this area, away from London, possibly away from England, the entire UK, or even bloody beautiful Europe. She ignored the other voice that told her that she was making an idiot out of herself, that she didn't know what to say exactly, that she had no lovely list with bullet points prepared, that she was in over her head and that he would only hurt her more now. She ignored the sad little voice that told her to run because he would shatter her heart more and that pitied herself.

All of those voices were being screamed down anyway. There was this one, loud, screeching thing inside of her to just go, look at him and be impulsive, to just look at him and she would know what to say.

Why else had she been in Gryffindor anyway?

She kept her feet walking and didn't dare to look directly at the door. She would figure this out.

Climbing the three steps up to the door, the brown door greeting her like an old friend, Hermione still didn't know what to say. She didn't even know whether to knock or just go in. She didn't know what to do when it was locked. Break in? Yell? Just go in? The conflicting voices in her head (and she should definitely have that checked if the voices continued yelling at her) all screamed different things at her.

She watched herself as her hand lifted and carefully, almost reverently, found the doorknob. She watched her hand in utter fascination as the muscles twitched on their own accord, turned it and the door opened.

Only then did she look up and saw a row of buttons she had, quite possibly, dreamed about.

"Hello," she said, and it sounded dreadfully shaky to her own ears. "I want my job back, please. I gave you no reason to fire me," the voice got steadier even if she wasn't sure what she was doing. "I always arrived on time. I never took a day off. Your books were always correct and the customers liked me."

Only now she realised that she had spoken to his row of buttons and she dragged her eyes up to meet his. It didn't quite register that he seemed thinner than usual, paler than usual, his eyes blazed, however and she found herself – enthralled.

He said nothing.

Hermione cleared her throat.

"I want my job back."

…

_A/N: Yep, I decided to continue this but it will take more than one chapter (oh, you know me … ). I'd just ask you to be a little patient with me. I'm working 50+ hours a week, I still have a bloke that needs some attention now and then and I even try to go to the gym twice a week. Oh, and sleep. I sleep as well. Again, I have no idea where this is exactly going but since I'm still somewhat basing this on real events, it should not be difficult to figure out as I go along. But again – please be patient and let me know if you like it. _

_Cheers!_


	3. Chapter 3

_The usual disclaimers apply. _

…

She cleared her throat.

"I want my job back," she said, her voice full of conviction and sincerity.

Whatever it was he had expected – and he couldn't honestly say that he had even anticipated her coming there and talking to him – this certainly wasn't it. His mind reeled and if he hadn't been experienced a lot of surprises in his life that he hadn't been allowed to show, he would have probably swayed on his feet. Such as it was, he didn't but he had to admit that he might have been staring at her, just a little.

"I want my job back," she said again and he tried his best to get his facial expression back under his own control and not leave it up to his strange, upsetting emotions.

Severus was, naturally, torn. How he wanted her to come back and how he dreaded it. He felt pain, worse than any Cruciatus Curse the Dark Lord had ever thrown at him, and he felt inexplicable joy, more than he had ever felt. His stomach was somersaulting and it was cramping.

"Say something," she suddenly pleaded and he realised then that he had absolutely no idea how long he had stood there, opposite her, staring at her. For all he knew, it was only seconds but the way she looked at him now, confused and almost scared and full of trepidation, with her hair unwashed and her clothes mismatched, made it seem like hours and he didn't know how to react. He felt like he was pulled down by the tide, and washed up on a rough beach, and pulled back again. Over and over again. Again and again.

It was very sudden that a though occurred to him in the midst of all the confusion.

"You wanted to leave," he said and tried to keep his voice as steady, as cold, and as forbidden as he could.

"I made a mistake," she answered immediately, and he could see her swallowing. A second, more maybe a minute later, her eyes grew moist and another second later, her beautiful brown eyes swam in tears. One tiny one, just a little tear escaped from her eye and ran down her cheek before it dropped off her jaw onto her vulgar jumper.

He nodded in reply and in fascination at the pretty tear but he still was quite unsure how to react to her – her standing there, her talking to him, her begging for her job. He wanted to be impulsive and take her back and …

"Be here by eight tomorrow morning," he found himself saying before he could ponder it and her reaction was immediate. She beamed, the wet brown eyes gleaming and sparkling, the smile stretching over her entire body and for a moment, it almost seemed as if she wanted to hurl herself forward, hurl herself into his body and he would have, probably, liked nothing better but in the end, she held back and just continued to smile, or grin, or beam.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," she murmured.

Nodding, Severus tried to breathe. He wanted to make her go away, wanted to think, sit down, have a stiff drink all by himself, think, just think without her puzzling presence. She, however, made no move to go. She just stood there, smiling and almost crying and wearing her emotions, the fact that she was happy to have employment again, on her sleeve.

Speaking of … sleeve. He knew a way to make her go quickly. He needed that drink, he needed to sit down in the dark, or at least in a dimly-lit room and just think about the fact that she had come, basically, crawl back to him. Oh – she had to be truly desperate to ask to be in his employ again. And he didn't even pay all that much but certainly more than the Ministry could offer her. But judging her appearance (and yes, he knew that was wrong), she had to be truly destitute. Couldn't even afford soap, or washing powder, and had, apparently, forgotten that she even mastered cleaning spells. There seemed to be …

"There seems to be snot on your sleeve, Miss Granger," he said scathingly and knew that he would hurt her with that comment, knew she would go away. Of course there was the risk that she might not come back after his bastard-persona had so eloquently made a comeback. But he would take that risk. No, he wouldn't but … it was too late to take back the words. Well, he could Obliviate her but … no, he couldn't do that to her. Well, he would. If she ever found out, he would but now … no.

She blushed. Blushed very prettily. Looked at him. Looked at her sleeve. Looked back at him.

"I'm, erm, out of, erm, washing powder. It seemed clean enough when I, erm, left home," she stammered.

"Do you need an advance payment? I could give you …"

"No it's fine," she interrupted, "I have money, I just, erm, forgot to go to the shops yesterday and realised I had nothing clean to wear. Well, that's not true. I'm sure there are one or two clean dresses or skirts or something in my closet but what would you've thought if I came here in my Sunday's best, so to speak? I'm sorry it's not as clean as it should be and I promise I'll wear something clean in the morning. I'll just run to Tesco on the way home and buy some, so …"

He smirked evilly. "Have you forgotten that you're a witch, Miss Granger?"

She blushed again. It was very pretty. It made his heart feel … well.

"No," she giggled nervously. "I'm sorry I'm just … " she paused, looked around, then at her shoes, "I'll be back in the morning."

"See that you are. Good bye, Miss Granger," said Snape and he was glad. Glad that she had taken it the way he had meant it (even though he wasn't sure himself how he had meant it), that she had not be offended, that she had not left in a huff only to never return.

"Good bye, Mister Snape," she replied softly and he could hear the rubber soles on the floor squeaking and watched her as she left the apothecary quietly but with a straighter back than she had come in, with her head held higher it seemed and with something akin a spring in her step.

He heard the door be closed softly and he allowed himself, a few seconds after that particular sound, a quiet, gentle sigh. Something felt odd on his face and he realised that a small smile had crept up on his lips, his cheeks and his eyes. She was back. She was back and he couldn't even describe to himself the utter joy he felt now, the happiness upon seeing her again, the flood of delight and pleasure he experienced. The sheer positive emotion that overwhelmed him and for a few, brief seconds, pushed even the confusion away.

Oh, but the horror. His smile vanished. In the morning she would be back and he would have to endure her beautiful presence every day except Sunday and the few days off she got. He would even have to talk to her on a regular basis again. No, never those private talks again, well, more or less private. But he would have to tell her what to order, what to sell, at what price, when to close up, when to open, what to …

He almost couldn't breathe.

Without a doubt, she would take all of his dignity again. He would be, once more, reduced to a stuttering, blushing man of over forty who acted like a love-struck teenager. She would turn him into an … idiot.

She shouldn't come back. She made all of this worse. She made it lovely and she made it worth it and she made it beautiful but she made it worse.

He had moved to his own rooms again, had gone straight to the cupboard that held all the liquor and before he had realised what he was about to do, he had grabbed the bottle of Scotch Lucius had given him for his last birthday, had uncorked it and had taken a good, long swallow. The liquid was burning in his throat and stomach even before he knew what he had been doing and regaining some semblance of consciousness, he put the bottle away, and sank into his dark brown armchair.

"She's coming back," he whispered to himself and he was so confused he didn't know what he felt at the moment.

…

The embarrassment came the moment she stepped into the brightly lit Tesco Express. There wasn't just snot on her sleeve but also some stains on the front of her hoodie whose origins seemed rather hazy to her. Chocolate? Gravy? Something else entirely? For a moment, Hermione was tempted to cast a Disillusionment Charm over herself and spare herself from the stares of her fellow shoppers but that would, without a doubt, be considered shoplifting and that she did not want to do. He had been right though. It would have taken mere seconds to get the stains out of her clothing and make them smell less ripe (at least, however, he hadn't commented on that one) but … well, she had wanted to go and had wanted to be quick and not lose her nerve. Nobody could truly blame her for that, right? Still, she hurried through the aisles, eyed the custard tarts and chocolate gateaus almost greedily before she told herself no very sternly indeed and only grabbed some washing powder and paid. She needed to get home before the thoughts set in. Thoughts she knew would come and … there they were.

She had been overly impulsive by going there and now, that she really allowed herself time to think she realised how many things could have possibly gone wrong. He could have just said no. He could have thrown her out onto the streets like the dirty dingy woman she looked liked. After all, he had been the one who had, in the end, fired her. He had wanted her out of the apothecary just as much as she had … she paused in front of the toilet paper. Why had he wanted to fire her in the first place? Maybe she had made a mistake that had taken time and effort to rectify and he was simply too polite to tell her. But then, why had he taken her back so quickly? If she had made a mistake, she would want to know – just to avoid it in the future. But he had said nothing and he hadn't even looked at her weirdly.

During all the time that she had spent gluttonous over chocolate and all the other things women stereotypically ate when they suffered from heartache, she hadn't once thought about the question why he had fired her. Not really. The thought might have occurred once or twice but she had always pushed it away in favour of other thoughts. Thoughts that went more along the line of never seeing him again, never talking to him again. Never being able to look into his eyes when he was close to smiling or laughing. Now, now that the situation had changed again, now that it was only eleven hours and thirty-three minutes that she was expected back at work, she thought about that particular question. Standing very still in front of the toilet paper, staring at nothing in particular. She didn't know, simply couldn't fathom why he had wanted to get rid of her in the first place, then take her back.

The only explanation she could think of – the very same reason why she had wanted to get out of his employment – was too ridiculous to even contemplate.

Hermione shook herself. She needed to get her clothes fixed, her hair washed, her body washed and her mind firmly on the things she had to do until the morning. She would see him again and that little thoughts in her head made her feel quite exuberant. She would see him and they would, would have to, talk. She could deal with the little crush she had. It would go away. In the end, she would have a secure employment with great pay and a boss she could maybe even call a friend.

If only …

Deciding upon slapping herself internally, she finally turned away from the toilet paper and grabbed a pack of washing powder instead. She could do this. No if onlys, no what ifs, in fact, no ifs at all. She would just deal with things as they came. That was, after all, what she had been trained to do all her youth. Nothing more, nothing less.

She would take every step such as it was. No thinking about the future, no thinking about the day after tomorrow, or even yesterday. Each thing as it came, each day as it came.

It was, after all, time to go home and do some washing.

…

He sank into his chair and stared into the glass filled with the beautifully shimmering golden liquid. He knew he shouldn't drink too much – she had proven too often in the past that she could tell when he had overindulged and she always had made a face as if she had bitten into a lemon. Or had been forced to drink a glass of vinegar. No, he would limit himself to one or two and then he would go to bed to rest. He needed to be on his best in the morning. He would see her, after all, in the morning.

Snape didn't want to think about what might happen. He didn't dare to hope or dream or even … well, what else was there? … for a little conversation, a smile, a laugh, her eyes crinkling, her hair shiny (if she washed it). He didn't want to remember the graceful movements of her hands in case they had changed and he was left with … a memory of a thing that had never truly been.

He emptied the glass and let it hover in the air before him before he sent it gliding into the kitchen. He would wash it in the morning, or maybe the evening. Or maybe when it was next time to do the washing up. Not that that thought was of any importance but any thought, he thought, was better than daydreaming about her. And a hell of a lot better than contemplating what had made her come back. He dreaded the morning and he wished it would come faster. He couldn't decide and it was an odd feeling and one he hated.

If only he could get rid of that ridiculous crush. The almost schoolboy-obsession. The torch he carried for her.

But maybe, if he looked at her soberly, clearly, and solemnly when she worked, he could find enough fault to only see her as an employee. Not someone to spend the rest of his sorry life with. Not someone to … love.

…

She was giddy with excitement. Checked the time every two or three seconds. She would get up extra early (even if that would result in her midday-tiredness being doubled), would wash her hair three times, and give extra attention to the way her curls fell, would make sure all her clothes were clean and pressed and matched. Would make sure her shoes were pretty and comfy. Would make sure that the touch of make-up and mascara wasn't smudged and looked just right.

A part of her knew that she could never win him over by dressing up and wearing make-up. It wasn't even worth trying and winning him over was like … well, let's just say she knew she couldn't win … But the way she wanted to look and feel should make her feel a bit more confident and a bit more self-assured. And while that wouldn't make it any more possible to become the future Mrs Severus Snape (oh dear – she had to stop thinking things like that), it would certainly make her a better employee and that was, after all, what she wanted. The rest … she hated to use the word hopeless but it was.

…

_Thank you for your patience. I have the next two weeks off and only have one exam to grade so I hope I'll have a bit more time to write. _

_Please consider reviewing!_


	4. Chapter 4

_The usual disclaimers apply. _

…

It was the strangest feeling. A mixture of excitement and nerves that wasn't dissimilar to the emotions he had felt whenever his Mark had burnt. Whenever he had had to return to that mad wizard. Only, this time, this particular feeling felt a lot more positive, a lot happier but in the end, he still wanted to employ his skills in the fine art of Occlumency to shift his attention away from his own shaking hands and, thus, stopping them from trembling.

He had dressed meticulously, despite the early hour. He was certain that it was unusual to get up at four in the morning just to get a shower and to make sure that his hair was oil-free and not the usual frying pan (despite everything, it seemed he couldn't claim the loss of his own sense of self-loathing combined with irony). He was certain as well that she wouldn't go to any trouble. She could just pull her hair out of the way the best she could, put on some hopefully clean clothes and stumble, half-awake, half-asleep into his apothecary. The same way she had always done it.

A not so tiny part of him certainly hoped so. He did not have the slightest clue of how to proceed, how to act, how to speak and most importantly, what to think if she suddenly showed up in her best clothes, with her hair wild and bushy and tempting him to bury his nose in it. He certainly did not know how to be Snape around her if she shouldn't be the usual Granger.

It wasn't that he disliked change – well, of course he did, much the same way as everyone else (he thought) but he needed her to act as if nothing had happened, so he could act as if nothing had happened.

And, if he was honest, nothing much had.

Alright, so, yes, he had fired her or she had handed in her resignation and he had spent the last few days, well, weeks, in utter agony but in the end, she was coming back to work and that was all that mattered.

Except – if she didn't show up.

What, and he groaned into his third cup of English Breakfast, if it was all a cruel prank on him and she was sitting at home, laughing at him and about him with her little friends? What if she … there was no use thinking about it. If she had played a trick on him (and why should she? And why should she not?) he would deal with this in much the same way he had always dealt with what life had given him. Cool aloofness at the best of times, raging destructiveness at the worst of times.

Taking a sip of his tea, Severus groaned again. He had to wait until eight o'clock and that was another hour to go. At ten past eight, he could proceed to destroying things or maybe just sitting there, with a little mean voice in his head telling him something akin to … _told you so_.

Now wasn't the time for those thoughts. Now it was time for tea and time to pour himself a fourth cup, time to carry it carefully down to the apothecary. Time to light the flames underneath the first cauldrons and checking on those potions he already had brewing.

Not the time to think about Hermione Granger. Definitely not.

…

By the time it was half past five, she had showered, she had gone to a great deal of trouble to wash her hair and tame it, she had put on the clothes she had lain out the night before, she had put them off again for fear of spilling the milk in which her cereal swam on them.

Not that she wasn't a morning person. In fact, she loved the early mornings, with the sun just rising and the birds just waking up and the newspapers just being delivered and all that but not being able to sleep after four in the morning was harsh – even for her. So of course, at around seven in the morning, she felt tired already and she knew she had an important day before her.

Of course she was doing her best, her very best, to just ignore the thoughts running around in her head, occasionally jumping up and down to get her attention but it was too hard. All night through (well, apart from the three or four hours she had slept), she had wondered what he was thinking, what he had done, what had happened to make him change his mind. She had thought about him and she had imagined what it would be like to just come into the apothecary in her very best clothes (actually, that seemed to be a little black shift dress which was cut well enough to hide her … womanly … hips and that little stomach), with her hair looking like it came straight out of a fashionable haidresser's salon and just enough make-up to make him overlook the rings around her eyes and the little spot on her chin.

But of course she knew that those thoughts were rubbish. He was Snape. If it wasn't boiling, simmering, maturing in a cauldron, it wasn't very interesting. And neither she, nor parts of her were currently, or hopefully in the future either, boiling, simmering, maturing in a cauldron.

Her emotions were killing here. It was a constant – vicious – circle of feeling utterly elated and feeling weary and tired and then, suddenly, melancholic and sad and desperate. Maybe, she thought, she had made a mistake in going back, in asking for her job back. Even if she had reason to do so. Her funds were possibly running thin … or at least she'd pretend they would. Should any of her remaining friends should ask. Not that they would.

Speaking of friends … she hadn't even felt that up and down of emotion in the worst of times when she had considered herself to be in love with Ronald. It hadn't been like that. Back then, it had, and she had been miserable most of the time. Yes, back then, back when she had been young and stupid, it had been misery. Not now.

Now was something else. It felt more mature and more childish at the same time. She felt like she was thirteen one minute and one hundred and thirteen the next. One moment, when she couldn't push down the giddiness at seeing him again, working with him again, she felt like she was thirteen (and then felt that she had been more mature at thirteen than she was now), and the next, when she knew that nothing would ever come of this, when all her being-in-love-head-in-the-cloud-ness seemed stupid and wasted, she felt almost detached, as if she knew being in love meant absolutely nothing and was in itself, a waste of emotion, a waste of time and brainpower.

Oh, in her heart, she knew she was too rational to fall in love with someone like Severus Snape … but then again, wasn't he perfect for her? An older man who knew about Weltschmerz and about weariness and depression and who had seen and experienced more than any other men she would ever need. His quick intellect and his witty remarks, his dry humour, coupled with that astonishing, world-moving voice of his was exactly what she was looking for in a man. Well, she hadn't specifically gone out to look for a man with a gorgeous voice but seriously … someone with a woman's voice could just go to hell.

Hermione only realised after she took a sip of her very tepid tea that she had been staring at it, lost in thought, for way too long. Eventually, and soon, she had to get a move on to be in the apothecary on time because the last thing she wanted was to be late.

Gathering the last bits of rational thought, she checked her own appearance in the mirror in her bedroom, left the bed unmade and simply, and without looking back, apparated away.

…

He bottled Essence of Eloquence into a small green glass bottle when he heard the soft chime of the little bell that she had installed a few months before they had begun to … talk. To become friends. His heart pounded in his chest and he wasn't sure where to put the bottle and the stopper and the cauldron and the ladle. He didn't know what to do with his hands, where to put them, where to go, what to do. His palms felt clammy and sweaty and he was suddenly very warm despite his cold and clammy hands and feet.

He was very close to reprimanding himself, telling himself that it could just be one of his rare customers, that this was nothing to get nervous about. That this was nothing to get nervous about, even if it was her. Nevertheless, he stopped himself and his pounding heart stopped when he heard her cough. She coughed. She coughed in a way that was meant as attention-seeking, as making sure that he knew she was there and his hands, unsure though they were, left the cauldron where it was on his bench, put the little green glass bottle next to it, the ladle into the cauldron and pulling himself up to full height, he walked out of his backroom and into the apothecary.

There she was – and she was as beautiful, if not more so, as he had expected. Her hair was tied to a knot at the back of her head, her robes were as immaculate as ever (well, apart from the day before), and the colour suited her.

If someone – heaven forbid – had asked him what colour her robes had been on that day, he would not have been able to answer. His ever-working brain simply didn't register the colour nor did it want to register it. All it processed was the fact that she was very beautiful.

It felt like the sun had come up after a fortnight of never-ending rain. Like a blue sky after weeks of grey clouds. Like stepping out into the fresh air after working with smelly ingredients all day long. Like sleeping between freshly laundered sheets. Like taking a shower after having sweated all day long. Like …

"Good morning," she said suddenly and his mouth felt very dry.

"Good morning," he croaked.

"See? I'm on time. And clean this time," she quipped and her laughter sounded a bit … could it be … nervous?

"I can see that," he answered, and he felt like he stood very awkwardly. He was very aware of his hands just hanging limply by his side and his head felt very heavy on his neck.

"Is there anything special that you want me to do this morning?"

Several things – yes. He could think of thousands of special things that she could do that morning but those thoughts, in his rational mind, were not only unwanted but inappropriate as well. And stupid. And demeaning – both to himself and to her. But then again, he just wanted her to be there. To just sit close enough that he could smell her shampoo and her soap and whatever else she put on her skin and in her hair. He just wanted her to do nothing but be there.

Oh, he felt stupid. He felt like his younger self pining after … Lily. He felt like a teenager and he couldn't let the teenager take hold of him or he would definitely make a fool of himself. No, he needed a grip.

"The books need looking after," he stated as calmly as he could. "And I need to get fresh supplies. So if you could … "

"The storage room, yes," she interrupted him with a broad smile.

"Yes," he nodded.

"Okay," she nodded almost gently and moved around the little apothecary with her own grace and a security as if she had never left.

"Alright then," he nodded, trying very hard not to cough away the lump in his throat that threatened to throttle him. Or choke him. Or strangle him. Or whatever else it wanted to do. "I'll be in the back," he paused. "Brewing."

"Alright," she smiled brightly, "I'll come and find you if I have any questions."

Do – he thought. And soon.

He felt like he staggered back into his backroom, back into his lab, back to the things he knew and away from those unwanted feelings in his crippled heart and the wrong images in his rational mind. Still, he didn't entirely close the door to the backroom but instead left it ajar, just so he could hear her. Hear her being back and with such ease.

In a way he was glad that she made no big deal out of being back and in a way, well, it sort of stood to reason (in his mind at least), that for her, this was just returning to a job. That this, here, was nothing more than a job to her and that she possibly just needed money.

She was back for the money and the joke, of course, was on him. Again.

He put his hands on his working bench and let his head fall forward. This was nothing if not embarrassing and it would become even more embarrassing if she figured out how he felt. He couldn't let this happen. This evening, after she was gone, he would have to work on strengthening his Occlumency shields again. He needed to put her away in a box in his mind and never let his feelings for her be known.

Never.

…

Hermione watched as he walked back into his backroom with a sureness that she was entirely lacking. Her hands had started shaking the moment she had finished her apparition and she had been so certain that he could have spotted it easily – if he had paid any attention to her. But instead … he had been so focused on his work and apparently couldn't wait to get back to his brewing.

In a way, she was very disappointed. Not surprised, no, but a part of her had wished there to be more attention on her. Clearly she had misjudged the situation. There she had been, thinking that he would be glad, at least a bit, to have her back. Obviously not.

She slumped onto the chair that she had, a few months again, put behind the counter and put her hands over her face. How stupid of her to show her nervousness so obviously when she had come in. Of course he would be put off now and it would be mere weeks until he fired her again. Who would want to have an employer who mooned after her boss? She would pay more attention to her own posture, her shaking hands and the likes and would take steps to prevent such things. She would be a good employee and not let him see anymore how she felt. He possibly wouldn't stop laughing at her.

Hermione sighed and set to work. After all, just because she was in love with her boss didn't mean that her work ethic had gone up in smoke as well.

…

_Sorry for the long absence. Life's busy. _


	5. Chapter 5

_The usual disclaimers apply._

…

The crisis came the next day at lunch and it was no small miracle that it happened just the. Of course the day before, she had been very preoccupied with nerves and papers and the smell of the apothecary and his nearness alone that she hadn't even heard her stomach grumbling and begging for food. She had noticed him, naturally, walking past her to get a sandwich and a packet of crisps for lunch but she hadn't cared.

Well – truth be told – she had cared that he had walked past her. The way he walked was simply marvellous. She could watch him walk for hours. So straight. His shoulders so manly. The male, Snapeish scent that just entered her nose as he was just past her. She could never get enough of this.

Yet, as soon as the smell was gone and there was only the quietness of the apothecary left, he out somewhere for lunch, she had heaved a sigh and had turned back to his books and his orders and everything that he had seemed to mess up in the time since she had left. To be honest, it was a lot. It seemed to her like he had done absolutely nothing in bookkeeping and the keeping of his shop – except losing customers. The numbers didn't look too good. No red yet but definitely a pink tinge to them. She hadn't expected the apothecary to be running towards bankruptcy so quickly. It was almost as if he had had absolutely no customers in the last two weeks and – no, he couldn't really afford to pay her.

Actually, the closer she had looked at the books, the more she had wondered how he had been able to feed himself. The apothecary had gone well until she had left. It wasn't that they were making a fortune (well, he wasn't making a fortune) but enough to get by. But since she had left, it seemed that he had only spent money on very expensive potions ingredients and not have sold anything. If the crumpled and barely decipherable receipts and bills were anything to go by.

A dozen Pythagorean Spidermummy's eggs? Twelve jars of pickled Indian Pepperbeets? Which they could have easily made themselves and for a fraction of the price? Nearly fifteen pounds of boomslang skin?

It did not make sense. His supplier must have made a fortune and – worse than that – must have thought he was going out of his mind. And must have been very happy about it, seeing that he had made him a rich man.

She had shaken her head, and had gone back to trying to decipher receipts and bills and had put them all neatly down in the book, so immersed that she had not even realised he had come back. So immersed that she had not realised how dark it had become and almost too immersed to have missed his grouchy, grumpy 'Go home' sometime around half past nine in the evening.

At least the work and her annoyance at his new spending habits had got her through the next morning as well, without the distraction of his smell or his shoulders or the way he walked.

But – as mentioned – the crisis came at lunch.

Her stomach would not be kept silent another minute and even though all that binging on unhealthy food during the time she had stayed away somehow needed to be taken care of, that certainly wasn't the day. Numbers were dancing in front of her eyes already and so, at around noon, she was ready to get herself a nice soup or salad or anything edible really. She stretched slowly, her shoulders and her neck hurting very much, her vision blurry and so she didn't realise that he was standing right behind her, watching over her shoulder what she had been doing all the time.

"Lunch," he said very solemnly and put a plate full of some sort of pie and peas and carrots in front of her before he walked around her and, accioing a chair, put another plate next to hers.

"Erm, thank you," she answered and hoped to all the transcendental beings that she wasn't blushing.

He only nodded, which she could only see out of the corners of her eyes before he sat down and began to eat very slowly.

She stuck her fork into the hot, steaming pie, steak and ale if she had to guess from the smell his was oozing, and her stomach made a very loud, very embarrassing gurgling noise.

"Pardon," she said.

"Eat," commanded he, chewing peas and carrots.

She did. Faster than she had probably every eaten before, gulping down the doubtlessly delicious pie and the vegetables.

From earlier experiences – eating with him, naturally, - she would have guessed that he would now, at this point, raise his eyebrows at her, make a clicking sound with his tongue and reprimand her for eating almost like an animal and not even trying to taste the different ingredients that had gone into that particular food. He had done it before. He had made her try and figure out what had been in the Bolognese sauce. What had been in the vegetable soup. What herbs there had been in the potato soup. What spices she could taste in her Chicken Korma. In her Chinese take away. In her fish and chips. He had … Hermione wrinkled her nose.

They had eaten a lot together and he had always talked to her about the food. With a passion. Now – he was absolutely silent. She could hear his chewing and his breathing. And not much of that.

Her pie (steak and ale indeed) was halfway devoured when she put down her fork and turned her chair ever so slightly to look at him.

"Yes?" he asked. Snarked, really.

She bit her lip.

"Eat," he replied to that and focused on his food once more.

"I was just … " she began slowly.

"Yes?" he asked impatiently.

"YouspentalotofmoneywhileIwas gone," she blurted out.

"Pardon?"

"I was just … looking through the books … "

"I have noticed," he interrupted, "you have done nothing else since you've come back."

"Yes, and actually it seemed like it was really important because I can't honestly see how you … erm," she came to a screeching halt when she looked up into his face. That face was like … thunder.

"Yes?" he asked with that soft, dangerous voice that a small, or large, part of her had always been afraid of.

Hermione stared at her half-eaten pie.

"Yes?" he asked again after what seemed like twenty minutes during which she hadn't been able to pick up her fork again. Much less eat anything.

"Nothing," she mumbled, well aware that the pitiful rest of her inner Gryffindor lay dying somewhere inside of her.

"You can't honestly see how I can what?" he asked and that voice was even more dangerous but at the same time, there was something in his tone, or his intonation or somewhere, which made her inner lion get up on his last legs and roar. Pitifully. But it roared.

"How you can order so much stuff that you don't ever use, that you will never use when you hire me again and when there is no money to even pay me," she said. Very quickly. Very quietly.

"I fail to see how this is your problem. As long as you do get paid," he replied icily.

"But this is … " she looked up into his eyes and there was, naturally, a glimmer of something in them which made her straighten up and her inner lion roar a bit louder. Even if it was still pitiful. "But this is your livelihood. You haven't sold more than a Sobering Potion in the last one and a half weeks. No money is coming in. You can't even pay the supplier."

"You will find that I have," his tone was cold and – if this wasn't Severus Snape speaking, she would have said it sounded hurt.

"Yes but there is no money now. Flu-season is coming up and you don't even have a Cough Concoction."

He stared into her eyes and said nothing. Hermione knew that he was challenging her and she, being who she was, leapt to that challenge.

"You can't keep afloat. If you continue like this, you will have to close within the next two or three weeks. That is if you stop ordering useless and pointless things."

"Your point, madam?" he asked.

"My point is that if you don't have an apothecary, erm, well, you don't have an apothecary. It'll all be gone. All of this will be … " she paused, "gone."

"Ah," he said slowly, a smirk crossing his lips. "Miss Granger fears that I cannot pay her. Miss Granger fears that she will be out of a job." Pause. "I see."

…

Severus was an astute observer. He knew she hadn't taken well to his useless spending of money. By mid-afternoon on the first day she had returned the crease between her eyebrows was as deep as the Grand Canyon. Or something like that, seeing that he had never really been to the Grand Canyon. It was very deep, nevertheless. And she hadn't eaten. Not that he minded the extra pound or two she had put on since she had left (in fact, she seemed even more beautiful that way but … no, that wasn't what one was supposed to think about an employee) but not eating was the worst way to get rid of that extra-weight. Still, he had let her be. He had gone out to get a sandwich and some crisps and had then ended up in the pub around the corner for a meal and half a pint. After all, she was in charge again.

Not that she knew that she was in charge but he had done nothing with any sense in it since she had left. He had brewed, yes, and he had tried other things but it was all worthless spending of money which she, indubitably, stumble about. He he would get a clip around the ears for that.

Not the worst thing that could happen to him. She was very, very magnificent and glorious when she was angry. And in a way, very cute. Her eyes flashed in that special way then and he truly, honestly liked seeing her eyes in that way. That special – _I-dare-you_ way.

Especially since she was the only one who ever offered him any kind of opposition. All those bloody customers had just left after seeing his face. They had faltered like … he couldn't think of a metaphor that fitted. That's what she did to him – he couldn't even think of metaphors anymore.

Still. He knew she hadn't taken well to his useless spending of money and he knew that he had to find some kind of explanation, if not an excuse to cover up for the fact that he just wanted to, that he had spent his own, and not the apothecary's money on those stupid ingredients.

Hell, he even had throw her out at half past nine that first day she had returned. When he had wanted to think about that day, and what it meant to have her back and how her eyes would flash as soon as she found the courage to tell him that he had spent money on useless things while watching stupid stuff on the telly. Not that she knew he had a telly. None of her business, even though … well. She should know.

In a way, he thought, she should know more about him. He should definitely talk more to her. If only for the purpose of making sure that she felt absolutely nothing for him. And that that nothing turned into loathing when she finally figured out that he had a weakness for stupid daily soaps and the football. And that he liked her. Very much. That was possibly the hugest asset he had in turning her away. A beautiful woman like her could never feel something other than a meagre form of friendship for someone like him. And that friendship would soon turn into loathing, and in this case, nothingness, if he showed any kind of interest in her.

Still – it amused him and angered him, and annoyed him, and evoked many other feelings for which he had no words when she came back the next morning with a wretched 'good morning' the crease between her eyebrows deeper than ever and had set straight for his books.

For heaven's sake – it wasn't that he had ran the apothecary into bankruptcy. Well, near enough if she made the mistake of thinking he had spent all of that money. Not that she knew about his Gringott's account.

Another thing she didn't know.

Problem was – he wanted her to know about him. To know all of his secrets and all of his passions (even if it was daily soaps and the football) and he wanted her to like all of that. He wanted her to like the entire Severus-Snape-package. Including all of his shortcomings, all of his flaws, everything. The entire thing.

Fat chance of that.

But he would have to try. In a way, he would need her to see him – the real him. The daily soaps and the football and the potions and the dusty books that he kept in his living room (dusty because he couldn't really be bothered with cleaning spells and because he knew that she would get marvellously angry if she knew that his books, rare first editions among them, were dusty. But only on the outside. And never so bad that they were damaged. He had taken care of that. He was a lover of books after all).

The chance was there the second day she had come back to work for him. Her stomach was complaining so loudly that he could hear it in the next room and before she had even noticed what he could possibly do, he had stormed out of the apothecary, had gone back to the pub around the corner and had brought lunch back.

She stretched the moment he was behind her with two plates and the pub meal on them. Her back as lovely as he remembered it. Her long, graceful neck clicking slightly as she moved it to one side, then the other. Her hands above her head in the air, fingers entwined. Her hair, like a crown piled up on her head. How he wanted to sniff her hair, bury his nose in the wild, tangled mess. How he wanted to rub her back, her neck, her fingers which were definitely stiff from all that writing.

And yet, he only put the plate in front of her and almost barked "Eat".

He knew what was on her mind and he knew that she was battling with herself to tell him. Not that he would make it easier for her. He did want to see those lovely brown eyes flashing with anger. Even if it was anger directed at him and sooner rather than later, if with a little provocation from him, it came.

He had waited so long for that moment. For the moment she would be the real Hermione Granger again. Strong and fighting and saying what was on her mind. Telling him that what he was doing wasn't alright. That she wanted to care for him only …

This wasn't quite the case. She was harping on about the apothecary and the money and yes, there was an instance where he thought that she was seriously worried about him but in the end, it all came together to one truly devastating conclusion.

She wasn't worried about him but about herself.

"You can't keep afloat. If you continue like this, you will have to close within the next two or three weeks. That is if you stop ordering useless and pointless things," she said and it almost sounded mean-spirited.

"Your point, madam?" he asked, challenging her to tell him the truth. To tell him his suspicions were correct.

"My point is that if you don't have an apothecary, you don't have an apothecary. It'll all be gone. All of this will be gone."

And there it was. She needed the job. Of course she had come back for the money. He was paying her a reasonable sum of money for the things she did. Basically, she could just sit around doing nothing all day long if she so wished and he would still pay her.

A part of himself knew that this wasn't true. Well, it was true but she would never just sit around doing nothing. She always found something to do and then she did it. She was the greatest asset his apothecary had. His brewing was excellent, yes. But she sold the potions. Without her, the apothecary was nothing. And she knew it. She had seen the books.

"Ah," he said and he tried to smirk as he had always done when he had been a teacher "Miss Granger fears that I cannot pay her. Miss Granger fears that she will be out of a job. I see."

She blushed at that. For a moment he was unsure whether that blush was because he had exactly hit the spot or because he had completely missed the spot but after all, it was only a moment that he wondered. Of course he had missed the spot. He was certain of that. At least he was until she opened her mouth.

It really should have been the extreme flash in her eyes that should have tipped him off but it seemed like he was a little slow on the uptake and so, he missed the absolute foreshadowing of her tirade and the proof that maybe, after all, he wasn't always right.

"Oh fuck it, Snape, don't you think I can get a better job than this? I could get paid three times this much somewhere else if I just wanted to. I want to work here because I like working here and I like working with you, but you don't seem to get this into your thick skull. But of course, you can just go and buy Pythagorean Spidermummy's eggs, twelve jars of pickled Indian Pepperbeets and nearly fifteen pounds of boomslang skin. Amongst other things. If you want to lose this apothecary, go ahead. I was thinking of your sorry little arse, not mine. I can get mine into a mindless job at the Ministry or somewhere else at any moment. But I don't want to."

Her eyes were flashing wildly and for a moment, Severus even thought that he had to smile. She wanted to work for him? Really?

"I happen to like this ruddy place. So eat your pie and get started on the Cough Concoction, so I have something to sell as soon as someone stumbles in here again."

He looked at her for a moment, a million things running through his head while he could think of absolutely nothing but how beautiful she looked at the moment and how well the blush that had intensified now suited her. He stuck his fork into his pie, nodded and tried to hide his smile behind the peas.

…

_See profile page. Thanks for reviewing._


	6. Chapter 6

_The usual disclaimers apply. _

…

The owl was sitting patiently on the window sill even as Dracula, the little Kneazle eyed him hungrily. The animal had almost doubled in size, didn't know the power of his fangs and sharp teeth yet (and possibly never would) but nevertheless, Severus was glad to have acquired him. It made talking to himself a little less awkward.

Severus eyed the owl suspiciously. Nothing good ever came from owls. They brought messages of debt and death, barely concealed attempts at blackmailing him into a social life (damn Lucius Malfoy), and worst of all – the newly imported Muggle idea of 'spam'. Cheap advertising on cheap parchment (or even Muggle paper!), sometimes with strangle looking little coupons attached. Not that this owl looked like the tired, haggard ones that had to deliver that spam, besides, as a scops owl, it was rather too small for that. Nevertheless, it looked well-groomed, and rather smug. Its eyes were alert, naturally, at dusk, and he seemed to be picking on the glass window as the bird saw him enter.

Dracula only turned his head for a brief moment before he continued to stare down his – supper.

"You know very well that we don't eat owls," Severus said with a smirk as he strode past his Kneazle and towards the bird. "The feathers would probably kill you."

Dracula meowed rather unhappily.

"Yes. Go catch your own food outside," his smirked widened. "Lazy animal."

Dracula meowed again.

Shaking his head at his extraordinarily lazy cat, Severus opened the window and the owl hopped immediately onto his shoulder. He arched an eyebrow. It was unusual for a strange bird to nip so playfully and gently on a stranger's ear. He could hear the rolled up parchment against his ear and carefully took the owl from his shoulder onto his hand. It blinked at him.

"Oh dear," Severus said to himself in understanding and sighed. Such a cute (according to normal standards – not Snape's), perfectly behaved, well-groomed owl could only belong to one person.

"Hermione, right?" he took a deep breath and gently, unrolled the parchment from the owl's leg. The curly handwriting on the parchment only confirmed his suspicions. The owl – well, the parchment, note, was from her. He was just beginning to wonder what she had to write about when the thought struck him that he could simply unroll the missive and read. He arched the other eyebrow at his own stupidity and almost reverently, he unrolled it.

_Dear Mr Snape,_

_I acquired this owl this afternoon after work and I just had to try and see how fast she was I've named her Pennula. Would you please send her back and let me know in the morning when you send her away? Thank you!_

_Best,_

_Hermione_

Severus wasn't sure whether he should laugh or shake his head in astonishment, so he merely frowned. It was just like her to test her new owl. And with what utter idiotically stupid methods. He shook his head at himself, frowned at his Kneazle and said "I should let you eat the bird."

Instead he picked up a spare piece of parchment and an old muggle pen and even though he chewed on the pen for a few seconds, he penned an answer quite quickly, carefully storing her note in the back pockets of his trousers.

…

Hermione knew that chewing on the nail of her thumb was a particularly bad habit. She also knew that it was better than eating that delectable Bramley apple crumble that was sitting just there, waiting to be eaten. Had definitely been a mistake buying it but what else was she to do but go shopping after she had sent that stupid note with that stupid new owl to Severus? And if that bloody crumble hadn't looked so very good, she wouldn't have bought it. It had definitely been a mistake going to Tesco instead of Boots. Or anywhere else. She should have just taken a walk or see if she could afford to go to a gym to be well – that was so wrong – pretty in shape for Severus.

Which of course he would never notice.

Instead she had bought ready-made meals and that bloody crumble and she was all alone in her flat, waiting for the bird to come back.

She never knew what had made her buy it. Oh well, she knew. Crookshanks was dead and she was lonely. It was as simple as that. And that poor owl had looked at her so sweetly – spur of the moment thing.

But, and she bit down quite forcefully on her thumbnail, the note had been a mistake. She didn't even know herself what she wanted to achieve with it. It didn't matter how long exactly the owl took to deliver post. She would find that out sooner rather than later but something inside of her wanted to be in touch with him – outside of work. It was silly and she knew and it she also knew when she thought about it more, she would blush like a teenager. Even if she was alone at home.

Hermione eyed her finger, then the crumble and with a heavy sigh, like a condemned walking to the gallows, she got up and picked up the crumble. She was just about to walk back to her couch when a clinking noise on the window made her jump and almost made her let go of the crumble. Just in time, she managed to tighten her hold on the container and on impulse, she shot on evil glare to the window until she realised that it was her own, brandnew owl that had made the noise.

Butterflies celebrated an orgy in her stomach and her nerves were dreadfully fluttery. He hadn't written back. Of course not. She hadn't asked a question, just asked if he could let her know … how stupid of her. She should have told him to note down the time and then send the owl back. Of course she hadn't thought to do that. She sighed again and dragged herself to the window to let the bird in – and noticed, followed immediately by a huge grin, that it nevertheless did carry a bit of parchment.

"Did you bring me something? Did you? Did he write?" she asked breathlessly.

The owl hooted softly.

"What? What?" she untied the scroll with trembling fingers and after closing her eyes for a few moments to collect herself – then discarding the collecting herself as rubbish because she was home alone with an owl and nobody would see her if she freaked out – she unrolled the parchment and read.

_It is now 9:39pm. Since I assume that you still live in Islington as you have told me last year, and since I still live above the apothecary on Dean Street, it should be around 9:46 pm when you read this._

She looked up at her watch, grinned, and turned back to the note.

_While I consider it wise that you have acquired such a small owl due to nosy Muggles, it would nevertheless be prudent to develop some form of protection against black, hungry, half-grown Kneazles._

She frowned. There was nothing more on the note. She turned it around, checked for hidden writing, read it again and still frowned.

It could only mean that he had a Kneazle now. She hadn't known that and … in a strange way, not knowing this little fact somehow bothered her. He had already told her a lot of private things but oddly enough, not that stupid little fact. She wondered why. It wasn't such a big deal. In fact it was something that would only – endear her more to him.

Her eyes opened wide in realisation. Maybe that had been the reason he hadn't told her. He didn't want her to know. But … why?

She accioed a piece of parchment beckoned the owl to her and two minutes later, the owl was on her way.

…

He scratched the Kneazle behind his ears as the owl landed on his window sill again. He smirked slowly, put down pumpkin pastry, put the black animal on the floor and faster than he wanted to, he had untied the scroll and read her note. Somehow, he knew that she couldn't leave it at that.

He didn't know why he hadn't told her before that he had got a Kneazle. It seemed the sensible idea at tha awkward time when he hadn't known what to tell her and what not. And somehow, he had been afraid that she would offer too much advice. That she could just invite herself to his place just to look at the pet. If she invited herself, he would want her to come to see him. Not a bloody pet. But somehow … she didn't seem to mind.

_Snape,_

_I do not know that I can protect her when I'm not close even though I'm sure she can defend herself. This black, hungry, half-grown Kneazle can't fly, can it? _

_H_

_PS: Please make sure your Kneazle doesn't eat my owl._

He really had to smirk. Of course he couldn't let that lazy animal eat her owl. Not that he seemed that interested in it at the moment. At this moment, he was still a kitten rather – playing with the fringes of his Persian rug.

He took up another bit of parchment and pondered for a moment. In a way, it felt very comfortable to communicate with her this way, but in another way, he felt afraid. He wasn't that good at social conventions, much less correspondence and what if he offended her with something he wrote? What if he offended her and she would quit her job again? What if … He shook his head to himself.

"I've never been a coward," he told Dracula who seemed intent on unbraiding the braided end of the fringe of the rug and didn't even look up. "Oh well," he continued and put pen to parchment before he could over-think it.

_Under normal circumstances, Kneazles cannot reach owls but such a trusting one as yours should be protected by a simple potion that can be put on its feathers. It alters the smell of the owl but humans cannot detect it. Remind me in the morning and I will give you a sample. _

He send the little bird on its way and summoned his shoes that he had taken off only minutes before. He had made the Owl-Protection-Potion before but it had been a while and of course he had no stock in the apothecary. Nevertheless, she should have it and it wouldn't take long. It was only a bit after ten. It only took about three hours to brew. Still plenty of time to sleep. And even if it took longer … he sighed … he would still do it. Maybe it would make her smile. And the bird was safe from Dracula.

"Stop destroying my carpet," he called out into the living room and made his way down the stairs to the apothecary..

There was a melody in his head and he hummed it softly, never realising he did it. He never realised that he smiled neither – and put some aniseed into some water and put it on a small flame, stirring and adding more ingredients when the owl found her way back to him and tapped lightly against that window.

Severus frowned. He hadn't truly expected Hermione to reply again. There was nothing she could reply to, actually. Apart from … he grimaced.

Of course she would want to … thank him.

_Snape,_

_oh, thank you so much! I think I'm going to bed now so I'm bright and early tomorrow. _

_Goodnight!_

He sighed and wasn't sure whether she expected a reply to this. If he didn't reply would she think him rude? Would she be angry? Her owl had to return to her in any case and so, after stirring in the cayenne pepper, he scribbled a note on the back of an invoice from some stupid supplier, tied it on the owl's tiny leg and went back to work, somehow smiling to himself again.

…

She made a habit of walking around her little flat while she brushed her teeth. Her parents had never allowed that but her parents were far away in Australia and didn't want anything to do with her, so what they didn't know … she arched both her eyebrows. It didn't matter, she still liked walking around her flat while she brushed her teeth and made sure to check all her windows as she walked around but her owl was nowhere yet. Maybe she had grown tired. She was such a small animal after all.

But there, suddenly, she was and – she squinted her eyes – there was even another note. She smiled and couldn't wait to read it and put it to all the other notes she had got and that would most certainly be kept for a long, long while.

Giving her owl a treat, she managed to untie the parchment at the same time and her smile widened.

_Sleep well_

She clutched the note to her heart as she went to bed and grinned and snug under the covers, she even smelled on it as she read it again and again.

…

_I'm back. Who's happy?_


	7. Chapter 7

_The usual disclaimers apply._

...

Naturally, they were both afraid of seeing the other at the apothecary the next day. Naturally, both took great care to look their best.

Naturally, they both pretended absolutely nothing had happened and that they hadn't exchanged any messages at all.

…

Hermione frowned. This couldn't be right. She chewed on her quill, careful not to puncture it and have any ink leak on her lips. She pulled another clean piece of parchment from the fat stack next to her and added the figures up again. Even though it couldn't possibly be right, it definitely was. Either he had forgotten to put any income in the books, or there simply hadn't been all that much. Well – next to nothing, to be honest. If this was right, the time of her absence had brought him close to bankruptcy. The lines across her forehead deepened when she saw what he had spent.

"Er...Snape?" she called out to where he was doing whatever in the backroom. Brewing something useful, hopefully.

"What?" he called back.

"Did you order Malaclaw tails?"

"Yes, I did," he answered after a moment.

"And Fwooper's feathers?"

"That as well," his voice sounded nearer this time and when she looked up, she saw him standing in the doorframe, looking at her as she sat hunched over his books. "What of it?" he asked with his eyebrows arched (and if they hadn't been directed at her, she would have found them immensely, well, sexy).

"You're...I mean...this...well...er..." she stuttered and felt a flush cross her face and hoped to all deities that deigned to listen that said flush didn't show as brightly red as she imagined it would.

"Yes?" he asked slowly.

"You're...ah...er...why?"

"Why what?"

She took a deep, fortifying breath, knowing full well that she would possibly, most likely get a dressing down for this. "Why did you spent all of that money?"

"Because I needed the ingredients," he answered and the calm in his voice made it perfectly plain that she didn't have long before he exploded.

"But..." she stopped herself. It was none of her business. It was his money. It was his to spent and if the apothecary went bankrupt, well, she couldn't even finish that thought.

Oh yes, she could, she thought suddenly, if the apothecary went bankrupt, she was out of her job.

"Yes?" he asked again and he sounded bored now.

"You can't pay me," she blurted and pointed with her finger at the column of numbers on the parchment she had just added up. "You've had absolutely no business that made you any money in the last three weeks. You sold potions for seven galleons. You spent 6974 galleons on various ingredients. Some ridiculously expensive and others just plain overpriced. I mean, who spends 22 galleons on seven handfuls of scruvy-grass? Or..."

"I do," he interrupted her coldly. "Now if you've quite finished?"

"No," she knew now that it was impossibly to stop her face from being a flaming red. "You can't pay me."

He gave something that sounded very much like a hollow laugh and with a billow of his robes, disappeared back into his little laboratory.

"Well done, Granger," she muttered to herself but instead of closing the books, she continued to try and find some kind of error he might have made.

…

Impertinent, impudent, stupid, sweet little wench. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to think. Yes, she had done his accounts in the past. Yes, she was good at adding up numbers. What she wasn't good at was knowing how much money he really owned. How much he could afford to lose and whether he could afford to keep her on. He had no intention of telling her that there was absolutely no need to fear for job because he had enough galleons stored away, parts of it in Gringott's, parts in his flat, part as investments in the Muggle world. She wasn't to know and it was none of her business either.

But at the same time, a feeling both warm and cold, idiotic and sensible started in his stomach. She wanted to stay there, wanted to work there. But that was part of the problem, wasn't it? She wanted to work for him. She didn't want to stay there because she enjoyed his company. She didn't want to stay for his sake but for the good money she made. That had been why she had returned. That had been why she had taken back her resignation and that was, maybe, why she tried to be nice to him now as well, writing her messages and things.

Why else could he explain that she had, unasked, taken a looked over the figures? Why else would she wonder about his finances?

He sat down heavily on the only stool available in his little laboratory, staring gloomily into his almost finished Draught of Peace.

He had always known there was absolutely no chance she was interested in him in that way. He sighed and then his glance fell on the little vial full of the potion he had made for her little owl. Well, he could still give that to her, even if he had hoped that it would spark something else in her. He shook his head slowly. It didn't matter. It had all been a dream anyway. A stupid, immature, childish, juvenile dream and he was neither of those things. He was a grown man of 46 (and to think that he had managed to get so old when everything had looked like he would die aged 38...). He could get over a little crush easily.

Now all he had to do was convince himself that Hermione Granger was nothing more than a little crush. Surviving the snakebite looked quite easy from that side of things.

He grimaced at his Draught of Peace and took the cauldron from the fire. He had no reason to stay in now. He could just easily go out and she could handle the shop. Not that anyone would come in. He had scared them all away. Well – no. He hadn't really scared them away. He just hadn't sold them what they wanted and after about a week of either ignoring the customers or sending them all away, they had stayed away. It was as simple as that.

"Snape?" she called angrily from the front room.

He rolled his eyes. Maybe she had found another little things in his books and now decided that they had to … whatever she could think up.

"What?" he snapped back.

"I'm taking an early lunch. I'll be back in an hour," she called and before he could even answer (that this was most unlikely of her – that she clearly could leave whenever she wanted – that he had wanted to eat with her – all of that) he heard the chiming of the little bell she had put on his door and was possibly out of it.

Well, so much for that. She was possibly running to her little friends, or worse still, going to the owl post office or even the muggle post office to send applications for new jobs.

He sighed and got up with the air of a man thirty years his senior to fetch another cauldron and do something more or less useful.

…

He would most definitely hate her for this but if it got him back onto his feet it didn't matter that he hated her. Well yes, it would but that was a small part compared to saving his livelihood.

She only knew bit and pieces of his history after the his recovery of the snake bite. His apothecary had already been more or less well established (well, she knew of it) by the time she had asked him for a job after her ill-fated and short-lived history with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She knew he had opened it and that Minerva McGonagall swore on his Decongestant Draught. Apart from that, she didn't know much and so far, she hadn't dared to ask much. He had told her things, yes, but definitely not the whole story.

Still, she knew how he reacted to certain things quite well these days and she knew that he would possibly have her head for what she had just done.

Hermione smirked.

Better this way than to have to go back to stupid MLE and stop stupid witches and wizards from doing stupid things, or better yet, take them away after they had done something stupid. As silly as it sounded, her work for Snape was much more satisfying even if she could not explain why. Maybe it was just the fact that she was seeing him. And, when the time was right, he would see that she had done the right thing. Even if there was hell to pay the next morning when she got back to work.

…

_Sorry, short. Sorry, slight cliffhanger. _

_A bit of a personal note here: I lost a baby in my 16th week of pregnancy last May. It was a devastating blow and one I didn't think I could easily deal with. I'm now pregnant again (18th week) and even though the doctors sewed my cervix up (erm, yep. Sounds worse than it it) I'm still very afraid of losing this one again. If you have a spare second, please send good thoughts my and Voldemort-Django's way (don't ask – but this one's given me hell at the beginning...though I doubt I would really name the kid that.)_

_Thank you!_


	8. Chapter 8

_The usual disclaimers apply._

...

Gasps echoed around Wizarding Britain the next day. Of course they didn't really echo because gasps, in their very nature, are not very loud. But there was more than one very lively discussion over breakfast and the accompanying newspapers in many, many Wizarding households. Many, many charms were used and many, many scraps of paper pushed into pocket before – so it seemed and of course all those numbers are greatly exaggerated) – half of Wizarding Britain (and maybe a quarter of Wizarding Ireland and France) got ready to make their way to a little apothecary in Muggle London, squished in between Boots and HMV.

…

"What the hell were you thinking?" he thundered, pointing at the coupon promising ten percent off the entire potions purchased (if amount spent was over four galleons) and the crowd of people in front of the apothecary.

Her eyes sparkled angrily. "Profit, Snape!" she answered immediately. "You have a margin of over twenty percent on almost all of your potions and tinctures and all the rest here and even the pickled parts of animals still have a margin of 15 percent. You get new customers who will be so happy with your potions..."

"I don't have this large a stock!" he interrupted her.

"Hence the little notice!" she grabbed the newspaper and held it underneath his large nose. "Items can be ordered if advance payment is made."

"Still!" he glared at her, "there are fifty, sixty people out there. And you can't tell how many others will come. I don't intend to stay here brewing for the next fifty years for a bit of money."

"I'll help then," she shrugged.

He shook his head and left her standing in front while he went back to his laboratory with slightly hunched shoulders. He couldn't quite admit it to himself that she had only tried to do what she thought best but in the end, meddling in his affairs was something he absolutely couldn't stand. His life had been meddled with for too long. He had opened the apothecary to just have something to do. He had never expected to sell much, he had never expected to have this spiral so out of control. And in the end, he would have the trouble. Fifty or sixty or so strangely clothed witches and wizards crammed between Boots and HMV and looking at something Muggles couldn't see. But the Muggles were nevertheless passing by and and they were looking. In five minutes time, the police would be there and then all hell would – naturally – break loose. And he would have to be the one to deal with that. Well. He would, then. For now, he just needed a moment to breathe back in his little laboratory. He should have seen something like his coming. She had hunched over his books and had sighed and had made all those cute, annoying noises.

Still, nobody could have seen this coming. She was right about his margins, she was right about most other things, but – what she was truly and utterly wrong about was the fact that he was nowhere near bankruptcy. Not even a tiny little bit. He was bloody well off. He could afford to retire to France or Majorca or some such stupid place and never work in his life again. He could possibly even (and no, he did not want to think about that fact at all) afford to take her. And keep her. And make her do all the things that he … no. She couldn't be bought. He knew that.

Severus Snape took a deep breath and stared at his ingredients. The best way not to think about all of that, including the fact why she had suddenly taken such an interest in his financial well-being, was to focus in something else. He inhaled while counting to ten, exhaled while counting to eight and with grim determination, grabbed his biggest cauldron. He knew what people wanted.

…

She wasn't entirely daft. Of course she had thought that a few people would show up. She hadn't expected quite so many people though. Still, she knew the charms she had carefully put over the pavement held tight. The people rushing past HMV and into Boots didn't even seem to notice that they were stepping carefully around an entire crowd of people. Of course the noise seemed to irritate them but they all looked in the wrong direction.

Hermione allowed herself to smile gleefully before striding to the door and opening it. She was doing this for Severus, she thought happily before she breathed deeply and let the first couple of customers in. It would be a lot of work that day but she didn't mind at all. If, in the end, it was worth it and if, in the end, it would mean she could stay with him a bit more, it was alright. And, of course, if, in the end, it would mean that she could stay with him longer to help him brew – Merlin, that was an added bonus. She tried very hard not to picture this.

She tried very hard not to think about this the rest of the day but to focus on the haggling customers (who never succeeded. She was very firm about that), on getting the order right, on keeping her smile on her face. And a professional smile at that, not a dreamy I-want-to-brew-with-my-Severus-smile. She stuffed more galleons in the little till than she had ever seen before and when she ushered the last customer out of the shop – at exactly seventeen minutes past ten – she hadn't even the slightest idea how much money they had made that day. More than enough, she knew that, to pay her for the next year.

The only thing she kind of regretted was not seeing Severus all day long. She had heard him puttering about in the back but he had never, not once, left his little laboratory. Under any other circumstances, she would have been miffed that he had not helped her but well, it had been her own fault. And he had clearly been unhappy with her. Something she had to put right.

She coughed loudly and opened the door a little bit.

"Are you there?" she asked, sounding a little timid to her own ears.

"Where else would I be?" he answered a second later and it made Hermione release the breath she didn't know she had been holding. It was dark back there and her eyes needed a moment to adjust. He sat on a clearly conjured chair in a corner and seemed to have the little Kneazle on his lap and a glass of something in his hand.

"It's been a great success," she said quietly, taking in what she was seeing.

"Has it?"

"Do you want me to count the money?"

"I couldn't care less," he answered coldly.

"What? Why? I made you money."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. Yes. I possibly made you more money than … "

"Take it," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"Take the bloody money then if it's that important to you," he said and the Kneazle jumped off his lap with a hiss. The little black furry creature prowled towards her, his yellowy eyes unblinking.

"It's not important to me but it should be important to you," she hissed back. "I save your sorry arse and ..."

"My sorry arse is my business," he interrupted her and downed whatever had been in his glass.

Hermione couldn't believe her ears. Yes, his arse was his business but she … "Do you want to go bankrupt?"

"Is that was you think is going to happen?"

"Well, your books and all.."

He sighed. "I see."

"What? I don't understand anything."

"You wouldn't," he said and it sounded a little sad.

"Explain it then," she whispered.

"No."

"Please?"

"No. Count the money and," he stopped and sighed as if he wanted to say something entirely different.

"And what?"

In that moment, Severus got up from his conjured chair and walked steadily towards her through mists of various potions simmering in various cauldrons. He never took his eyes off hers and she felt the shiver and the trembling and the butterflies in her stomach stronger than ever before. How she wanted to rush into his arms and tell him that she had done all of this for him and just a little bit for herself too because she wanted to spend all her time with him and if he needed to pay her wages so she could do it, so be it. How she wanted to be held by him and inhale his scent and never let go. The hair at the back of her neck stood on end and she felt her fingers go clammy.

It took him four, maybe five steps to stand in front of her. Not close enough to be touching, but close enough that she could have reached out for him, had she dared. Close enough that she could smell the ancient Scotch on his breath and the fumes of the potions and the scent that was his alone. He was close enough that she could have just stood on tiptoes and could have – very easily – kissed him.

But he never took the last step. Instead, he stood, staring into her eyes as if he wanted to read her and his breath washed over her faces ever so slightly.

"Why are you doing this, Hermione?" he asked very quietly.

…

_Dun dun dun. Yes, I do love my cliffies. Besides, it's hard to focus with the little one partying in my belly. _

_Yes! I'm still pregnant (30 weeks now) and all seems to be well. Thank you all for your kind wishes. It seems they're helping. Before you ask, yes, I know the sex of my baby but since my partner doesn't want to know, it's a secret between me and my gyn. If you have ideas for names though, please let me know (the favourites at the moment are Leo for a boy and Iuno for a girl (like Juno but with the Latin touch). _


	9. Chapter 9

**Not mine. Dedicated to all of you!**

…

"Why are you doing this, Hermione?" he asked very quietly and stood right in front of her, staring into her eyes.

He could see that she was, in some way, rather uncomfortable. He could see her swallow. He could see that she tried very hard not to blink. She was beautiful even like this. She was very pretty when she was off kilter. She was very pretty when she was on kilter. She was very pretty no matter what.

But – he needed to know. He needed to know without resorting to barging into her mind and he needed to know what she had to say for herself. She had, in his modest opinion, done something horrible to the little apothecary. They had their routine. They had their way of doing things and now, with half the Wizarding World descending on them, knowing that he still concocted the best brews in all of the United Kingdom, they would be on to them. Day and night. He wouldn't have a moment's peace. Owls would arrive in the night, asking him, begging him, maybe even blackmailing him into brewing this or that life-saving potion.

He dreaded that thought.

Still – this was possibly not why she had done it and he was, after all, still waiting for her answer.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

She cleared her throat. "Hermione."

He rolled his eyes. "Does this make any difference?"

"No, not really but, you see, I … "

"I asked a simply question. I'd like an answer," he answered icily. Not that he ever felt icily towards her but maybe, if she had done the entire thing so he was better off, and so she could get an extra cheque to get away to … Barbados, he had to start feeling something less than tender for her.

"For you," she said very quietly and he could see her swallowing again.

"What?" he blurted before he could help himself.

"I did it for you. And for me. I mean of course I did it for me, too. Because I work here and because I like you...erm, I mean I like working here," she blushed. She suddenly just stopped talking and blushed. Bright red.

He stood. Dumb.

The silence stretched.

Dracula, the little Kneazle, purred. Both Hermione and Severus both quite suddenly turned their heads to stare at the animal whose sound had broken the silence. It stared first at his owner, then at Hermione, then blinked, purred again, stretched and sauntered off.

"Erm, yes, well, I'll just..." Hermione trailed off.

"What did you say?"

"I'll just, erm, go."

"That's not what I meant."

…

She closed her eyes briefly and saw a flash of something inside her mind. She had nothing to lose now. She had done what she felt was what she was supposed to do. She had helped get his apothecary back on its feet. Well, at least she had started doing it. Now, he could hire real help and she...well...as far as she knew, Tesco still sold marvellous cakes. Marks and Sparks also. There was bound to be a Dunkin' Donut or Krispy Kreme opening close by soon. There was always her Cadbury's. She had given him his livelihood. No matter what she said now, she would always get back on her feet. It would hurt but right now, it hurt more not saying anything.

"I said," she cleared her throat, "I like you."

"I thought so," he answered almost immediately.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Do you have anything to say in response to that?"

He still stood there. Somewhere, a Kneazle paw scratched on wooden floors or steps. She didn't know which. He stood there and he said absolutely nothing but his gaze was on her and she almost felt as if she were burned by it. He still said nothing. Nothing.

Her insides started crumbling. Ever so slowly, she pulled her eyes away from him. Ever so slowly, she started to turn her head, then let it snap back. She hadn't said everything.

"I like you-like you. Not just like you. No, as a matter of fact, I more than like you. I love spending time here, I love being in your company. I love being an ever so small part in your life. It's important to me to play this tiny part. It makes me feel..." she smiled a little sadly, then shrugged.

She would walk away now. Now, she could go. She had said everything she could say without losing face. Once more, she looked into his eyes, smiled at him, then suddenly, turned around.

"I'm sorry. That's how I feel," she said over her shoulder and began to walk away.

For a brief moment, she thought he would stop her, but he didn't say a word, there was no hand on her shoulder to stop her and so she walked out of his apothecary and possibly out of her life.

The tears didn't come this time. She felt relieved in a way. She had got that off her chest. If he couldn't reciprocate her feelings, it was okay. She could get over it now. She didn't have any more secrets now. Her shoulders weren't slumped this time. She could walk proudly. She had told him. He hadn't answered, as she, almost, expected he would. The cat was out of the bag and she, almost happily, apparated home. She would possibly never return to the apothecary. Never see him again and that thought send a tiny stab of pain into her heart.

Hermione allowed one tear to trickle down her cheek as she ascended the stairs to her tiny flat. She pulled out her wand and unlocked, and unwarded the door to her sanctuary. There were still some biscuits in the kitchen and she could phone for a pizza. With triple the amount of cheese. That would help the other tears that somehow threatened to trickle down her cheek.

She shrugged off her dark blue coat and simple let it slide to the floor in the hallway before she went into the kitchen, switched on the light and almost fainted at the sight before her.

No, it wasn't Severus sitting there in her kitchen or anything like that (she might have dreamed off that once but she knew her wards were better than that) but a small owl she recognised only too well sitting on the window sill outside. She rushed, her cheeks flushed again, to the window and ushered it in and with trembling fingers, untied the note from its leg. If it really was from Severus, and it was his owl, he must have sent it the moment she had left. Or maybe … well, she deserved a cheque. Maybe it wasn't a note. Maybe it was a dismissal. Maybe something...

She stalled and she knew it. She cleared her throat, coughed, closed her eyes, opened them again and unrolled the tiny bit of paper.

_Impolite to run off before letting people speak. Bad form, Hermione._

Hermione grinned from ear to ear.

…

_A/N_

_Thank you for your patience and all your good wishes._

_Leo is growing like a weed. I still have to get up 3-5 times a night because he's hungry but we're great. Please don't expect any wonders now. I managed this short chapter due to several well-timed naps only but I'll do my best! And almost no cliffie this time._


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